The Irish War for Independence
by Lady-Arsene
Summary: Patrick Kirkland has desperately wanted independence for Ireland for centuries. He gets it with some difficulties. Yet, he loses his family and ties to the world as a price. Not to mention some of his strength and land. Those last two being bestowed upon a child who appears just like him. (Twoshot complete!)
1. The End of the War

It's been far too long. Far too long, centuries as a matter of fact, underneath the oppression of the blighted rule of Great Britain. Patrick Kirkland, the personification of Hibernia or more commonly known as Ireland, felt as if every waking moment he was drowning. An invisible chain clamped too tightly around his neck exiling any oxygen from entering his lungs as he felt each sap of strength ripped clean from his bod, and his eyes wrapped with some cloth to keep him blinded.

This was all because of his youngest brother. That little wrench that thought he could morph into some entity more powerful than his brothers every wished they could be. Arthur Kirkland, the personification of England as well as holding the dashing title of the ringleader, the puppet master, or the man behind the curtain of the cursed Great Britain itself.

Despite Allistor's and Dylan's (Scotland and Wales respectively) earlier failures, Patrick was going to set himself free. Arthur's other precious pets have fought and won before him- so why couldn't he mimic them? The most notorious out of the freedom bunch being Alfred F. Jones, the ripe America that Arthur sobbed day in and day out after losing. Oh how Patrick remembers beckoning at every call Arthur made after that supposedly heinous day. Serving the Englishman at hand and foot along with his fellow enslaved siblings. How the Englishman was pale with malnourishment and only seemed to beg for a second chance; no matter the amount comfort from his family shoveled down his throat, and the prospect of escaping his hell through books being non-existent during those days.

Oh what Patrick wouldn't give to see Arthur in such a miserable state again.

So, he threw a revolution after lifting the spirits of his people. His personal war for independence surging through the veins of his people-the heart of Ireland. With the proud Irish standing against their oppressors, the English, in beautiful glorious bloodshed and companionship. Sending a message to not only the British, but sending a message of hope to the fellow Scotsman and Welshman across the waters.

Though the day was July eleventh, the year being 1921. The citizens of Ireland were sure rallying together to raise hope for this war; while the English were simply casting this aside as a minor crime, and that Ireland would return within the next month or two. The air in Ireland was blowing a cool breeze across everyone's faces, the musk of the land-consisting of the stench of the dirt and the crisp gras beneath their feet-was a welcomed smell to the Irish, yet the British didn't quite enjoy it so much. The sun with shining prominently in the beautiful blue sky, the rays adding a bit of tint to the skin if many, and very minimal fluffy clouds were strolling through the sky.

What a perfect day to set yourself away from Great Britain.

After going through his morning ritual; (Which consisted of escaping from slumber, taming minimal parts of his curly orange hair, dressing himself in casual wear, and guzzling down a shot of whiskey from the pub owner across the street.) Patrick fashioned a holster on his belt that day. Made with brown leather that complemented his attire, which was worn for the war at hand, it hung tightly to his belt and it held a gleaming knife inside it. A knife mocking Jack the Ripper's from the Whitechapel Murders of 1888, pure irony at it's finest. Patrick wasn't simply going to brandish the knife and scare a few Englishman away, no he hadn't speant the last week selecting that very knife for that dull activity. So, why would be choose such a... Flamboyant weapon that could easily get him into any undesirable trouble?

Well, you see my dears, Arthur was just little ways out from Dublin that very same day-apparently visiting his troops before returning to London at the break of dawn the next day. But Patrick wasn't willing to share his plan so eagerly quite yet.

Disembarking from his surprisingly common house, Patrick strolled through the working-class bit of Dublin. Waving hello to volunteer nurses who were actually inn owners before the war, volunteer soldiers that were reciting exciting stories to the little ones, and of course the precious children who couldn't wait for their time to beat the Englishman in. Yes, it was all sunshine and rainbows while Patrick was strolling through his capital city-keeping a steady pace as if not to add attention to himself-but that serene peace had ended when the Irish Kirkland slipped passed a barricade protecting any unknown outsiders from entering Dublin.

Then, the real mission had begun.

Patrick walked on nearly deserted roads, only one rare car driving past him as he kept on moving. To the ordinary individual, observing this man must be rather odd. Seeing him walk with a giant knife fashioned to his waist, walking to seemingly no where. But, if Patrick dared to spread his plan then he would be considered a war hero-despite being the embodiment of Ireland itself, yet that was generally kept a secret to any outsider of the government. Yet, luckily, all that draining walking had paid off, and Patrick had finally reached his destined location with energy surging through him.

A camp for the British set up a little ways away in a vast meadow-decorated in soft dark green grass and sprinkled with lime green shamrocks that swayed slightly in the cool breeze-their army green tents sticking out in such a barren landscape. However, Arthur had strayed away from his camp earlier that morning. He had his breakfast tea, with honey and lemon added to the warm mixture, before trekking on down to the small crystal blue stream about a miles walk away from the camp, the soothing sound of water splashing against the rocks acting like a siren song to the British man. The Englishman sat besides the stream, his eyes glazed over as if he were contemplating his next course of action against the Irish, and hugged his knees to his chest as he indulged in a quick moment of silence.

Giving Patrick the opportune moment to pounce on his prey.

"Oi."

Was all Patrick needed to let out in order to catch Arthur's attention. He allowed the younger blonde to turn his head and register Patrick's presence-a expression of absolute raw fear claiming his face as he sprung to his feet. The Englishman put on a pathetic display as he sporadically went patting on his body for his revolver, the item in question being in a holster around his thigh but that was far off from the patting around the torso. Patrick felt a chuckle ripple through his chest at the pathetic sight, the Kirkland before him being nothing more than a disappointment to family. And with a simple move with both hands pushing Arthur down to the floor, Patrick was able to unsheath his stunning knife and hold it against Arthur's pale throat-all while the Englishman was recovering from his head hitting the soft dirt and grass beneath them.

It took a hot second for Arthur to register was was causing a surge of dull pain on his throat, after discovering his emerald orbs widened as he felt Patrick's feet press down against his wrist. (Luckily Arthur's palms were down to the floor and clutching at blades of grass.)

"A' ain't takin' yer rule no more." Patrick said, voice thick and trembling with bottled up anger. The knife slowly trailing down from Arthur's throat and the sharp tip resting against the top of where the Englishman's heart would lie. "It's gonna end today."

With the further widening of Arthur's eyes, eyes flooding with fear and bewilderment-yet pain being the most prominent feeling in those orbs-indicated to Patrick that his little brother had finally comprehended his plan.

So, it's best not to keep it veiled forever now.

Patrick was going to carve out Arthur's heart. Cutting it away from every vein and organ it was attached to, and remove it from Arthur's body. Before watching Arthur gurgle and spit out any blood as his spirit disembarked from his body. Then, Patrick would showcase the heart to his eldest brother Allistor-making the Scotsman proud. Before showing it to his people and publicly declaring Ireland's independence.

Let's not digress now, the main attraction is just starting after all.

The tip of the knife began to dig in with a little force on Patrick's part, a small hole was poked through the rough fabric of Arthur's clothes; the tip of the knife poking at Arthur's skin. Yet, all the Englishman could do was squirm and make small whining noises. Any and all pleas for help or for his older brother to stop being lost in a bear trap inside his throat. The only thing he could muster the strength for were those pathetic little whining sounds as an addition to staring at the Irish man with fearful eyes.

And as more and more pressure was being added, Patrick smiled to himself-applying all his weight onto his feet in order to keep Arthur's arms down-as he glanced up to see Arthur's reaction. And seeing those fearful green eyes, the same shade of green as the other Kirklands.

Those same fearful eyes from a time too long prior. Patrick was a blossoming adolescence and Arthur was nothing more than the scrawny disappointment child of the family. The child that all ways was plagued by nightmares and would scampering to whichever siblings room was closest-with the lucky winner being Patrick. Child Arthur's green eyes widened in fear as he quietly allowed himself in, and poked Patrick's cheek in order to wake him up. (The elder sleeping on a rolled out blanket and using a rolled blanket as a pillow.) And once Patrick returned from the glorious world of dreams, he saw those green eyes staring at him as he enveloped the small thing in a comforting hug. Those eyes pleading for his help all the same until Patrick's comfort soothed him.

Those fearful eyes being the exact same as the ones he was staring at in the present.

Patrick Kirkland couldn't kill a brother for his independence.

So, the Irish man fell onto his hip, away from the stream and away from Arthur. He witnessed the Englishman sprang up into sitting position and rub his wrist. Before looking at his disgusting excuse for an older brother. "Patrick..." Arthur stated, his voice soft and welcoming. A voice that embodied Patrick's very own when he welcomed the petrified Arthur all those centuries ago.

Yet, Patrick couldn't handle it. He himself rose to his feet and sheathed his knife before running off. Mock voices of Allistor scolding him repeating as he ran further and further away from Arthur. Stopping at some elder tree just a little ways from Dublin. Unveiling his knife once more to repeatedly stab at the dark brown bark, doing the exercises he wish he could've unleashed on Arthur-albeit frustrated screaming and sorrowful apologies to anyone who was ever a Kirkland. "Why, why why!" He shouted, voice pained stabbing the tree with each word. "A'm so sorry..."

Yet, once he returned to Dublin, the people were celebrating. Dancing, cheering, drinking, and he hadn't know why his people were so hyper. He partook in one drinking game while his nerves were calming down, still utterly confused about Dublin's current state.

Until Patrick had heard news of the truce that had just taken place. Independence he was desperately searching for was just within reach. Even without the sacrifice of his youngest brother.


	2. Northern Ireland

With some well wasted time, Patrick had gained his much deserved independence. You know, after many despair-inducing meetings and being stuffed inside conference room after conference room with the disapproving scowl Arthur always wore. His people were still fighting in the streets, the guerilla warfare hadn't completely ceased when England called a truce. His people were still dying, killing one another in the streets before wives and offsprings, and all England decided to do was split Ireland into three halves. One to join Great Britain, and the other two left to rot with the now independent Ireland. The shackles had come off, Patrick could finally breath for the first time in centuries. And he desperately wanted to be locked back up again, underneath English supervision and limited freedoms.

Yet, he would still be together with his family.

After the fateful treaty was signed, and Ireland split with a civil war in tow, Patrick had lost nearly everything. The prospect of freedom hadn't seemed so welcoming any more, like it once did when Patrick used to dream during the beginning years of his enslavement. First off, he lost the entire Kirkland family. Arthur put up restrictions for the members of Great Britain's contact with Patrick. The siblings were not allowed to speak to their Irish brother, and they were all to leave well enough alone when it came to any mentions of Ireland. Gosh, even though the United Kingdom meetings were a thorn in his side, he'd submit himself to Arthur if it had meant he could attend them once more. Oh, how upset they made Arthur, causing him to get all cherry-faced while he was spouting curses. And how Allistor would lean his back against the wall closest to the window, taking a long drag from his cigar every now and again. And how Dylan would simply sit in his seat, a piece of paper and a pen before him on the oak table, as he stared with widened eyes at his siblings with the occasional nervous laugh. While on that note, Patrick had even lost contact with the entire world. Young Alfred, or America as you may recall, had stepped in to aide the end of the blighted Anglo-Irish war. Yet, his existence had not been noted when Ireland became free. Hell, if Patrick hadn't known any better he would've thought the entire world was ignoring his calls. The people he used to greet warmly on the streets, a smile so wide and a tip of a hat presented to that lucky fella, were all foreign faces in his disgusting Ireland. Friend against friend, father against son, every other moment he heard a gunshot in Dublin alone. He didn't dare fathom what was occurring in the other regions of his precious country. Since he hadn't the strength to do so. He felt a chunk of his strength ripped from his chest after the treaty was signed.

No doubt his removal of strength came when a handful of his counties were taken from him. Yet, he couldn't say those strengths were applied to Arthur. Since he caught wind of another country child being discovered. Another soul was bestowed Patrick's stolen treasure. A rather small child by the word of it. Donning the same curly orange hair as Patrick, as well as the same shape and color of eyes. The exact same lopsided-toothy-grin that Patrick held on his lips whenever something tickled his fancy. As well as a near identical country name!

For that child's country name just so happened to be Northern Ireland. The newest pet in Arthur's armada to restart the British Empire. (In that case, what a waste of a life.)

Patrick had first laid eyes on that child the third time he attended a war conference. Tensions were still on high from the recently concluded Great War, and everyone's true intentions were hidden underneath a mask and words were meticulously chosen before being spoken to the fellow nations. They were all fearful that Germany, Ludwig, was about to spout off once more, and the other half was concerned about the civil war occurring within Patrick's own country. The sound of gunshots still ringing through his mind every five minutes.

He sat around a humongous oak table, being sandwiched between Hungary and Japan. (Elizaveta and Kiku respectively.) In a bored state of mind, he twirled a pen in his slim fingers, green eyes dully colored and glazed over.

His attention was neither on the pen he was toying with or the people on constant guard surrounding him in his space. It was given to some otherworldly presence. Yet, as he accidentally dropped his pen down on his blank sheet meant for note taking, he was pulled back to his harsh reality. The Irishman released a tired sigh through his parted, cracked, lips as he sunk back in his minimally fluffed chair. He brushed his bangs back, colliding with his curly orange locks before crashing back down onto his freckled forehead. His gaze shifted from person to person in the room, to a Frenchman to a Korean, and observed as they all interacted.

Until, his gaze hit the little one sitting adjacent to Arthur. The child holding the same characteristics as this fabled "Northern Ireland" his government officials were whispering about when Patrick was within earshot. Blonde-orange hair that was curled when applicable, green eyes the same shade as the rest of the Kirkland's, the lopsided grin, the everything. It was as if Patrick was gazing into a mirror that rendered him a child.

Yet, he had a hankering desire to steal that child away from Arthur. Shelter them from the watchful eye of Great Britain, and show them the horrors their own civilians were causing as they conversed.

But alas, Patrick could only sit in that uncomfortable chair and watch-perhaps listen if he was closer.

From a single glance it was obvious that this "Northern Ireland" and Arthur were not related on a parent offspring type of relationship. The body language had indicated that labeling them as so was far from the bull's-eye. They sat shoulder-to-shoulder, being sure not to spill into the others personal space yet they were still relatively close.

Luckily for all souls subjected to eternal punishment in that room, Alfred called a temporary break for lunch-despite it only being ten thirty. The majority of the crowd exited the large room in exchange for flooding fatty family dinners scattered about the city. The luck of the Irish was sure in play, since Arthur and the foreign child decided to linger behind-packing their own meal in a brown bag. While Patrick was circling around the table, the child was poking and prodding at the black rocks Arthur had packed for them; and watched in confusion as Arthur consumed these rocks. Yet, was broken out of that very trance when Patrick arrived.

"Oi." Patrick let out, eyes set on the orange haired boy besides Arthur. His presence wasn't welcomed to Arthur in the slightest. Patrick took visual note of this, the blank canvas inhabiting Arthur's face as he looked at his older brother-not a single word escaping his mouth. "I said oi."

"I know." Arthur replied coldly, the child glancing rapidly at both parties. "Now, can you leave us alone."

"I got somethin' to ask."

"I don't have time for this-"

"Who is he?"

"Me?" The little boy said, his green eyes shining.

"Aye." Patrick confirmed, crossing his arms over his chest as he waited to hear an answer.

The boy saw Arthur's now furious, disapproving, expression gracing his features, yet obliviously decided to answer the question on hand. "Brother calls me Northern Ireland..." He said, pointing at the blonde Brit he was sitting besides.

Now that most of his confusion cleared up, Patrick began to feel a sudden connection that he hadn't take note of prior. Hatred, adoration, and uncertainty. Those were all the emotions swirling inside the Irishman's heart. This wasn't his son, no, if the little one addressed Arthur as his brother, than North was simply a brother. Yet, it felt as if Patrick was being reunited with a son he initially lost during the Anglo-Irish War. And he didn't know how to feel.

However, Patrick's time to strike was closing since Arthur rose from his seat-briefcase in hand and their packed lunch left on the table. The Englishman said plainly. "Let's go back to the hotel." as he grabbed North's wrist before the little one let out a small whine.

"Wait!" Patrick hollered, catching any other lingering country's attention. "Lemme talk to him!"

"No."

Arthur practically tugged North out of his chair, and the little one glanced back at Patrick with widened eyes before trying to catch his legs up with Arthur's long strides. And all Patrick could do was stare.

Stare as he witnessed the child representing the counties stolen from him walking away and with the slave owner that is Great Britain.

His heart wanted to shatter, he wanted to fall onto the floor and scream until his throat went raw.

He wanted to be with that child.

And he just watched him walk away.

* * *

 **AN: I have no clue where this idea came from, but I hope you all found some enjoyment reading it!  
**


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